The History of a Heart

Chapter I

" /^NCE upon a time," some twenty years ago, two sisters sat diligently working by the fading light of a February evening. They Were girls of about twenty and eighteen, not in the least alike — the elder being very handsome, and the younger all but plain. I say " all but," because it is not pleasant to record one's own deficencies ; and I, the younger of the two sisters, — Lettice, — had no claim whatever to good looks, whilst the eldest — Sibyl — was aUow- B VOL. I. ed by everyone who saw her to be beautiful. The evening I have mentioned stands out vividly in my recollection, now so many years have passed away since that time. We were sitting in our dingy parlour, called by courtesy the dining-room, where Sibyl and I transacted all our daily affairs, making way, at stated times, for the family meals.

It was a dreary apartment, though the house to which it belonged was supposed to be one of the best in the unfashionable little watering-place of Cliftonville. The outside of our house was certainly better-looking than the interior, and as imjDosing as plaster and stucco, with balconies and balusters, could make it. Still, as I have said, the room where Sibyl and I sat so busily at work that well-remembered February evening, was anything but cheerful or pleasant. The house was, in fact, throughout, like our family affairs — somewhat poverty-stricken ; and year by year it grew shabbier, whilst we all did the same. However, we consoled ourselves with the reflection that we were people of good family, and that every resident in Cliftonville knew that Major Monkton's connections were unexceptionable.

Such had been the case, no doubt, till it pleased our father to make a second marriage — very displeasing in the eyes of those of his own family who remembered his existence, and particularly so in the the estimation of Sibyl and myself. Some half-dozen years before the com mencement of my story, he had chosen to marry the young governess of his two motherless girls. It was not that we par ticularly disliked Lisa Fenner, or had any fear of her as a stepmother; but it was the bare fact of Major Monkton's choosing to b place a governess in our deceased mother's place. At the same time, I do not think that my sister and I had any such peculiarly tender recollection of our mother as to justify the violent indignation with which we heard of Miss Fenner being about to fill her vacant place, and become our father's wife.

The first Mrs. Monkton had been a confirmed invalid for many years, and my sister and myself were but little with her ; and often, when allowed to see her, it was under the urgent restrictions her state required, and which were entirely opposed to all our ideas of juvenile liberty and enjoyment. Our mother had offended her own family (that is, the elderly relation with whom she lived) in accepting Major Monkton, when she might have married far more advantageously. She had a good fortune of her own, and be stowed that, as well as herself, on my father ; but, unfortunately, he was fond of speculations, and soon ran through his wife's money. The offending couple then applied to Miss Vavasour for help, which was indignantly refused ; and she not only withheld all assistance while living, but died unreconciled to the niece she had brought up ; and her fortune was left to augment the family estate of her only brother, Sir Leo pold Vavasour, a childless man of great wealth.

This gentleman was just dead, and it had never occurred to Major Monk ton that it was likely he should be remembered by him, or that he should in any way profit by the event. To my father's astonishment, and, I may add, unbounded satisfaction, however, he received a letter, bidding him to the funeral ; the said letter enclosing a cheque for travelling expenses and family mourning. It was upon this mourning that my sister and myself were so diligently expending our time and eyesight. We were so used to do everything for ourselves that it never occurred, either to us or Mrs. Monkton, that we should call in a dressmaker upon so momentous an occasion. I remember the day alluded to was a Friday, and our mourning was to be ready the next day, that we might appear in due state on the fol lowing Sunday.

We had, therefore, work ed the more diligently, and as no mournful retrospection shadowed our employment, notwithstanding its sombre character, we laughed and talked merrily as our well practised fingers flew over our task. New dresses were very rare occurences in those days, and black silk and crape we considered with wondering admiration, and worked on with a good will that was bringing our undertaking to a speedy conclusion. Sibyl was the first to announce the completion of part of her task, and carefully laid aside the skirt she had just finished; then, stretching her arms above her head, declared she was so cramped and tired, she must rest for an hour at least. It was getting dark, so I also laid aside my unfinished work, and came and stood by her side at the window, watching the fading light over the sea, and the few pedestrians on the Parade turning homewards for the night.

"I wonder if papa will be home to-night," I said, inquiringly, for he was not yet return ed from this all-important funeral in the north, and all we had heard, since the reading of the will, was, that everything was to be left in abeyance for a year from the day of Sir Leopold's death, whilst there were only two or three people who were neces sarily to be made acquainted with the con tents of the will in the meantime. I must observe our hopes never, even when we found ourselves so unexpectedly remember ed, soared above a small possible legacy to Sibyl and to me, who were the only living near relatives of the deceased man. Everyone knew, or fancied he knew who the heir would be to the large property and estate. After the early death of the only child Sir Leopold and Lady Vavasour ever had, they adopted and brought up two orphan children, the son and daughter of a dearly loved sister of Lady Vavasour's. These two children seemed to supply the place of the son they had so bitterly mourned, and after Lady Vavasour's death both Hylton Cun liffe and his sister Therese continued to live at Sir Leopold's place, and to be con sidered like his own children.

There was no doubt that they would be his heirs. Rumours, however, had reached us (for we heard a great deal of what was reported to be going on in the world at our quiet little sea place) that both these young people had some time previous elected to follow their own paths in life, and Hylton Cunliffe had been in the army several years. Whether with or without the entire approval of Sir Leopold, our informant could not decide. It was, however, inferred that, although Sir Leopold might have preferred detaining him at home, he did not quarrel with young Cunliffe because he chose amore independent line of life ; for it was duly ascertained that the young man always made his home at Vavasour, when he chanced to have the opportunity of doing so, in the course of his military career. Of the sister we heard more decided news.

Miss Cunliffe had contracted a marriage which displeased Sir Leopold. She had chosen to throw herself away on a penniless officer, a Captain St. Orme, the son of a neighbouring clergyman, and a friend of her brother's. Having been continually brought by the latter to Sir Leopold's house, he requited that gentleman for the kindness with which he was received by taking away with him the charming girl who formed the delight and comfort of the old man's home. It was said that Sir Leopold had other views for his ward, and that he had intended to bestow her hand and a large fortune upon a young nobleman who was supposed to be greatly epris with pretty Therese Cunliffe. Another flying report we heard — and I need hardly say we listened greedily to every rumour concerning these our invisi ble connections — was that Captain St. Orme had a very fascinating and beautiful sister, and that she was destined to be the future wife of Hylton, and mistress of all his expected broad possessions.

In furtherance of this idea, we were told that Captain St. Orme had been joined by his wife and sister in the Crimea, that they both acted as nurses to the sick and wounded, and that Captain Cunliffe being amongst the latter, no doubt the intimacy had every opportunity of growing and strengthening under such favourable circumstances. As Sibyl and I stood at the window looking into the darkness, we amused ourselves with recalling all these half-forgotten rumours, and, piecing them together, fashioned the fabric according to our own fancy. We had, a few years before that time, seen our august relative, Sir Leopold Vavasour. It was soon after the marriage of his niece (his wife's niece), and the de parture of his nephew for the Crimea, that the old man came for a week or two to Cliftonville. He was then in declining health, and used to be drawn about in an invalid chair ; he avoided making any acquaintances, on the plea of ill-health, and we were not exempted from the exclusion.

Our father, Major Monkton, who I must confess was rather of an irrepressible turn of character, sought at first to break down this barrier of reserve, and remove the old family grudge so long entertained. The only effect of these amiable overtures was, alas ! to hasten the departure of the invalid. Before he went, Sibyl and I had the wonderful good fortune to meet our relative in his early chair-walk, and to be accosted by him, to our intense surprise. He stopped and inquired whether we were the Miss Monk tons, and asked our respective names and ages. He seemed pleased with Sibyl, who happily not being shy by nature, was per fectly ready to talk, and make any degree of acquaintance requisite on a short notice. Sir Leopold took little notice of me, merely saying we were not like sisters, but that Sibyl was a perfect Vavasour.

She went home highly delighted with her success, and the next day her father, wishing to improve the occasion, took her him self to caU upon our grand relation, the stately old man in the invalid-chair. But, alas ! for human hopes and wishes, just as my father believed the object of his life was about to be accomplished, and that friends and fortune were about to be propitious at last, the bubble burst. Sir Leopold Vavasour had left the place early that morning, never more to be seen by us, his expectant relatives. The next news of him that reached was that he had returned to his castle in the north, where he was henceforth as inac cessible to us as if he had been guarded by the dragons of olden times. Sibyl was, however, ordered by her father to indite a very pretty little letter of inquiry to her new acquaintance and old relative, hoping to hear that he had benefited by his sojourn at Cliftonville, and dwelling on the delight it had given her affectionate heart (and her dear sister's) to have been recog nized by their dear mother's relative.

Poor dear Sibyl (only sixteen at the time) was quite innocent of the composition of this effusion ; but being told it was the proper thing to do, neither saw nor imagined anything but what was dutiful and proper in the proceeding, and looked forward to the answer it might bring forth. More disappointment, alas ! A few lines came in reply from a confidential secretary, with formal acknowledgments in the name of Sir Leopold Vavasour. After that, another little despatch was sent, with further hopes as to the amendment of the invalid. To that no answer was returned, and from that time to the day of his death we neither saw nor heard more of Sir Leopold Vavasour. " What a little fool I was to write those two precious letters !" said Sibyl, laughing, as she tossed the string of the blind from hand to hand, and looked so pretty in the waning light.

"Well, it was not so much you that did it as others, Sibyl," I returned, remember ing all the discussions on that memorable circumstance which Sibyl just now brought back to my recollection. "Yes, it was certainly much more papa's doing than mine." " Or Mrs. Monkton's," I amended. " Nonsense ! Letty — Mrs. Monkton, in deed ! As if papa would consult her in such a case ! What can she know about what is proper to be done between relations ? Why, I don't think she has any of her own — at least I never heard of any." "Except me," softly exclaimed a voice from the darkness at the other end of the room.

Chapter II

" A ND who's me?" asked Sibyl, turning -*-■*' her head for a moment to the quarter from whence the voice proceeded. "Ah! you are there, Carl, are you? Well, we could not see you in the dark. When did you come in ?" I asked, as my eyes discerned the graceful outline of a slight, tall, masculine figure in the back ground, and was well aware to whom it belonged. " Only these few minutes am I come in, and you talked so earnestly you did not hear my good evening," said the young man, with a slightly foreign accent, but VOL. I. C perfect acquaintance wTith the English language. " Really, Carl," continued Sibyl, hardly turning her gaze from the window, "you are quite tiresome, coming in in that cat like manner ! One never knows when one is alone." "You shall be alone this next minute, dear lady," exclaimed Carl, hastily.

" I only came to bring these tickets for the concert to-morrow. I have them given to me, as one of the performers, and I thought you would like to go ; so I came. Indeed, Miss Sibyl, I did not steal in upon you. So good-bye." " Nonsense ! Sit down for half-a-dozen minutes, whilst I thank you, Carl. Yes, I shall like this concert very much ; I wanted to go, but saw no chance — unless papa should come back quite rich from this rich man's funeral." " Poor man !" exclaimed Carl, com passionately ; and then, forgetting his intention of going, he came up to the window where we were standing, and, placing himself behind me, I knew he was indulging in a long, loving inspection of Sibyl's beautiful face. Carl Fenner was our step-mother's only brother ; both were the children of an Eng lish governess, married to a German profes sor, and both were brought up, like their pa rents, to earn their livelihood by teaching.

There was a very tender affection between this brother and sister. Mrs. Monkton was a few years older than her brother, and it was through her influence and exer tion that he had obtained the situation he now occupied (at a very select private Academy), as German and drawing-master. He taught music as well — for Carl was a clever creature, and extremely well-educatc2 ed in more essential respects. We were all very fond of him, and he was in the habit of coming and going to and from our house something in the manner of the domestic animal to which Sibyl had likened him, though his occupation in it had been some time ended. " Now sit down and tell us something amusing," said Sibyl, beginning to clear the long table, littered with our work, and with scraps of silk and crape in every di rection, whilst the servant-maid was bringing in tea-things, and making the usual preparation for our evening meal.

Carl was nothing loth to be so invited, and was always ready with his clever fun and descriptive fictions, eked out with charming little caricature etchings, to make us laugh, and see things in as ridiculous a light as they appeared to his own lively imagination. Whilst thus employed that particular [evening, I remember little Er nest, our small step-brother, about five years old, scampering downstairs, and rushing into the room, to secure the cov eted place on his uncle's knee, exclaiming, " Mamma's coming — coming ! But she is reading, and can't come quick like me." "Never mind," said Sibyl, carelessly. " She need not hurry herself to come- — -we don't want her, and shall have tea as soon as it is ready." Then Carl glanced up with a look of pain on his fair handsome face, and bending his head to the child said, "Go and fetch mamma at once.

Tell her I am here, and tea is ready, and sisters are waiting." Thus ordered, little Ernest scampered away to seek his mother. Whilst we are waiting for her, I may observe, en passant, that our step-mother was never in time for anything, or any meal, especially when her husband happened to be absent, as he was not unfrequently, from the family repasts. No doubt he found better and pleasanter entertainment at his Club, and the houses of such old resident friends whom he was content to visit en garcon. Lisa Fenner was a very pretty young woman when Major Monkton married her, and more than twenty years his junior. Still, no doubt, she considered it a great lift to become Mrs. Monkton, with an independent position in life. Neither was her satisfaction much abated by knowledge of the distaste with which Sibyl and I looked upon her in her new relation to us.

We were mere children in her estimation, and she neither sought to conciliate us, nor, on the other hand, did she use her power in her new situation to annoy or retaliate upon us. Our former lessons were at first conduct ed on the new footing ; for it was part of my father's policy thus to secure the services of a governess for us, and the pleasure and comfort of domestic life for himself. A very short time served to convince him of the utter failure of his plans. A rapidly-increasing young family was quite sufficient to engage the attention and time of his wife, without the numerous duties he had unwittingly assign ed to her portion. He found his daughters' education must succumb to the more engrossing ones of the nursery. So our instruction became nominal — that is, Mrs. Monkton advised our reading, and the line of study to be observed, but left the details to ourselves.

It was an equal relief both to her and to ourselves when she withdrew from the school-room. So Sibyl and I studied, or left it alone — as we liked ; and we emerged from the little back room, which was now wanted as a day-nursery, and en tered into possession of the dining-room (when not otherwise engaged), and ran every chance of becoming two of as rmedu cated dunces (as se//-educated young ladies are apt to be) as might well be met with. That we escaped the full effects of our own idleness and ignorance, was due to Carl Fenner's kind exertions on our behalf ; he came to our house for an hour or two every day, and taking his sister's duties on himself — in love to her and gratitude for my father's kindness — he became our regu lar instructor in everything that it was necessary for us neglected girls to learn.

I need not recapitulate our acquirements or accomplishments, but I believe we could pass very fair muster with most of the highly-educated young ladies of our limited acquaintance. Since I had passed my eighteenth birth day, our lessons, as such, had gradually ceased. Carl, now only six and twenty, had taught us nearly all we knew for the last five years. My father was well satis fied it should be so, though he rather shut his eyes to the fact that we were entirely taught by his wife's brother instead of her self. He would concede the music and the German to Carl, but our course of reading and history, and other essential branches of education, were all ignored by him, or placed to his wife's account. He would say, in a sort of patronizing way, " My wife has not much time for the details of the schoolroom, but she overlooks my girls' education in every respect ; and they are old enough to read and study by them selves now ; and for languages and accomplishments, I have given them a first-rate master in Carl Fenner."

Yes, the instruction was given, indeed, and well given, but it was by Carl, for my father was confessedly too poor to pay much for our education ; and he knew the young man's grateful heart delighted to give all it could. Thus it was that Carl continued to come and go unquestioned about our house ; and I, who loved Sibyl so well, could not but see that our house contained the one great light of his life for poor Carl. I did not know then whether she knew of the love with which he regarded her ; but I must have been blind not to notice its existence. I could not tell when it began, or in what way it was displayed, or what were Carl's hopes or designs ; or whether he had any. I only felt a perfect conviction that Carl Fenner's whole heart and soul were devoted to my beautiful sister. It had begun about that time to strike me that both Sibyl and Carl were on less easy terms than in past days — that Sibyl was less kind, and that he was more impatient — or, if I could fancy such a thing in regard to our good friend Carl, almost apt to take or imagine offence from Sibyl, when I was sure none was in tended.

It had been so that evening, and was so utterly opposed to his well-known gentle ness of temper, with its rare union of patience and firmness, that I often felt astonished when these little skirmishes arose, as they frequently did, from no per ceptible cause. There was one thing which always visibly distressed Carl, and that was a ten dency both in Sibyl and myself to speak slightingly of his sister. We did it often heedlessly, and were sorry for it — when Carl happened to be present ; at other times I do not think we suffered much from compunction. The fact was, Mrs. Monkton was very often provoking, from her inveterate habit of dawdling and appa rent unconcern as to the convenience and pleasure of others. I believe it proceeded entirely from her phlegmatic nature, and not from any wilful disregard of her fellow creatures' comfort.

She was attached in her way to her husband, and in the same way devoted to her children ; but I think unless one or all had fallen into the fire or water, it would have been difficult to have elicited any very lively expression of anxiety even in regard to them. They were fat, thriving children, neither better nor worse, I believe, than other people's. Neither Sibyl nor I favoured them with any particular warmth of affection ; but we generally tolerated them when not very noisy or greatly in our way. Sibyl was rather impatient that evening at our stepmother's dilatory ways, for we wanted to clear the table, and get back to our work. Carl saw the little cloud on Sibyl's fair brow, and his own contracted also as he remarked how difficult it was to be always punctual with so many little calls as his sister had on her time with her children, but no doubt she would not keep us long waiting.

Sibyl merely replied that of course Mrs. Monkton was at liberty to choose her own hours in her own house, and those in it must abide her convenience. I was glad at that moment to hear our step-mother's leisurely step descending the stairs, and to see her appear a moment afterwards. She held one child in her arms, whilst the two little girls clung on to her limp skirts, and all entered the room en masse. Lisa was serenely smiling as she welomed her brother, and looked quite unconscious of any delay on her own part, or incon venience on ours. There was certainly a good deal of quiet grace in that unruffled composure, and a species of elegance even in the easy fall of her shawl, and the taste with which her fair, abundant hair was wrapped round her small head. The style was so simple, and yet so pretty.

My father was often in the habit of extolling this repose of mind and manner in his wife, and not unfrequently at the ex pense of the girlish vehemence and im petuosity which Sibyl and I were wont to display on any trifling occasions. Thus Lisa came quietly in, smiling in her apathetic way at her brother, with little Ernest on his knee; but without seating herself at the table, turned to Sibyl and said, " Oh ! I am sorry you are all at tea. Please send it away, for we are to have dinner instead." " Rather late for dinner, I fear," returned Sibyl, who often acted as deputy-house keeper. " Why, it is six o'clock, and there is nothing ordered, or in the house just now, for dinner. Can't you manage with tea, and something for supper afterwards ? Come, let me pour you out a cup." " Oh ! it is not for me, or my fanc3T," said her step-mother.

" I am sure I do not care in the least whether I have tea or dinner — it is all the same to me ; but it is your papa's wish. He is coming home, and I have a letter from him this evening." " What are we to do ?" mused Sibyl, who knew that Major Monkton's lightest wishes were laws in his own household, and must be attended to, whether possible or not. " Oh ! don't worry about it," returned Lisa, carelessly. " He has settled all him self, happily. Carl will order everything, and there is the letter." Sybil took the dispatch, and I looked over her shoulder whilst she read it. The contents were : — " Dear Lisa, — I find I can get home to morrow evening by the half-past seven train, so shall want dinner ready by eight. I would have gone clown to my club, but I have a friend with me — no less a person age than Captain (now Colonel) Cunliffe himself.

He is on his road to see his sister, Mrs. St. Orme, widowed by the late war, and as we travel the same way, I have asked him to stop tfoe night here. He will go to the hotel, but promises to dine with us. You can ask Carl to order everything, and a waiter from the hotel, by eight o'clock. Carl will know the sort of thing I require ; and tell the girls to put a few flowers in the drawing-room, and make the place look as tidy as you can, and mind that Sibyl and Lettice put their mourning on. You can do as you like on that particular. Yours, &c." Such was the letter, and we all looked from one to the other, astonished at the importance of the news it conveyed. We had so few visitors, and none of our family or connections had ever before appeared at our house so unceremoniously. Mrs. Monk ton alone was perfectly calm and uncon cerned.

She had rolled off all her care for the coming banquet to be prepared for the coming guest, and was no more disquieted as to the result than if her husband had said he had asked his old friend the harbour-master to an impromptu repast. She only gently urged the necessity of VOL. i. D " clearing the table," and of Carl's going without delay to do her husband's behest at the hotel." Carl took his orders very quietly, and just wrote down what he supposed would be necessary, appealing chiefly to Sibyl, whilst his sister assented to every proposi tion made. I was more concerned how to obey my father's orders, and finish my dress sufficiently to put it on that evening ; whilst Sibyl, declaring hers was ready, said she would look to the arrangement both of the dinner-table and of the drawing-room, calling Carl back to beg he would send in some hyacinths, or whatever flowers were to be got at that late hour, and at that season of the year.

We were a little fluttered, it must be confessed, for we had only heard of this Hylton Cunliffe and his sister from an un approachable distance, and it seemed so strange to hear that, without warning of preparation, this, to us, great man and Crimean hero was about to step into our very common-place little house, and that this very evening we should have the hon our of making his acquaintance. D

Chapter III

f)Y eight o'clock that same evening we ■*-^ were all duly dressed and seated in the drawing-room, awaiting our expected guest. My father came home alone, having left Colonel Cunliffe at the hotel, to follow at his leisure. It was a fortunate arrangement, as it gave my father time to look round, and see how his orders had been executed. Sibyl, with her pretty taste, had done the best she could with such poor mate rials as were at her command ; but our bare and ill-furnished room presented no glaring incongruities to shock a refined taste ; the sweet early Spring flowers, and a few of Carl's masterly water-colour sketches, constituted its only ornaments ; but I think, with Sibyl in it, no man, especially a young one, would have com plained that ornament was wanting. Our guest soon made his appearance — a tall, dark, handsome, soldierly-looking man, not more than eight and twenty, but looking some years older, with a grave, quiet, reserved manner, that favoured the impression.